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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22763266">A Rapid Slide</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyrmDisco/pseuds/WyrmDisco'>WyrmDisco</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Friends at the Table (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Composer/Professional Musician AU, M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:22:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,874</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22763266</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/WyrmDisco/pseuds/WyrmDisco</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Samot/Samothes professional musicians AU for Secret Samol 2019.</p><p>Summary:<br/>Samot is a composer finishing up the last piece for his graduate recital. Samol recommends that Samot check out the studio of some percussionists who live a little ways away from Downtown Marielda. Samot meets Samothes, a professional percussionist, and they write some music together. And maybe they fall in love along the way.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Samot/Samothes (Friends at the Table)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Secret Samol 2019</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Rapid Slide</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialhare/gifts">imperialhare</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Prompt from ImperialHare:</b><br/>- Modern AU shenanigans - getting together for the first time in this timeline? How do they meet? How many times a day does Samot post to Instagram? Does Samothes have one of Youtube channels where he makes stuff in total silence? Or are they college-age Maelgwyn's embarrassing rich dads? Include whatever elements you like!<br/><br/><br/>Big thank-yous to @joeytheprince and @robin_goodposts for proof-reading and giving great editing suggestions!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It would've been another story if it was a nice day outside. Unfortunately, all the floor-to-ceiling library glass window had to show him was the muggiest, most humid day of the year. Everyone always had something to say about the difference between a </span>
  <em>
    <span>wet </span>
  </em>
  <span>heat and a </span>
  <em>
    <span>dry </span>
  </em>
  <span>heat and which was actually “more hot” but all that really mattered to Samot right now was that the inside of the library was </span>
  <em>
    <span>freezing. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot paused to look up from his workstation in the small room he had rented for the evening to work on his compositions. It was so gross outside.</span>
  <em>
    <span> Maybe, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he thought, </span>
  <em>
    <span>it would be a more productive day for writing if I had been able to take my keyboard outside… and bask in the sun? </span>
  </em>
  <span>He pulled out his phone and opened Instagram, jealous of his friends and colleagues who had chosen to study in different and less temperate parts of the continent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But nooo, you had to get your Doctorate in music composition from this specific university in Marielda. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot tabbed through his open pages on his laptop:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Program Notes</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Recital Hall Reservation</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fixed Media technology requirements</span>
</p><p>
  <span>List of performers, their individual payment rates</span>
</p><p>
  <span>More program notes</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hardest part was the program. It was only a few months before his recital program was due and Samot knew the flow of the recital was a little off. He had dramatic fixed media, he had a setting of poems for Soprano and violin, he had a woodwind quintet… But there was no finale. There was no… spark. What was the point of putting on a recital of your own works if it wasn’t fully dramatic?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot fidgeted with his earrings, his rings. And then he opened YouTube. What could be exciting? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Chamber music… Something really intimate and impressive. Something with different sounds… Maybe… percussion?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As soon as the thought entered his head, luck walked into the door in the form of a guitarist. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Samot. I didn’t know you were in here. How are you wearing a coat in this heat?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Samol! You knew I was in here. It’s good to see you. How are you wearing shorts in this frigid library?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samol was carrying a guitar and smelled of the rain, as though he had brought it in with him. Samot had sought Samol’s advice before with his compositions. Samol always seemed to know anyone and everyone who was an expert on their instruments.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you know a percussionist?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know lots of percussionists, kiddo.” Samol laughed and pulled up a chair. He turned Samot’s laptop towards himself and began nosing his way through Samot’s notes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What kind of percussionist do you need?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m thinking maybe a timpanist?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, friend, what kind of temperament?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’d say most in our field strive to be well-tempered.” Samot smiled to himself at his joke, while Samol drove straight ahead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You need a smart-mouth percussionist? That doesn’t narrow it down much. But here,” He said, sliding a business card across the table, “I bet these guys can help you out. Their studio is about 5 miles outside of downtown.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How do you always know somebody?” Samot marveled, carefully picking up the card from the table.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s the business, kid, you always gotta know somebody. Nobody can know everything,” Samol kept his self-exception implied, “I bet you don’t even know your reservation for this room is up!” he laughed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot began packing up his equipment while delving into a quick tirade about how much he had to do today that he completely forgot about how many undergraduate students he had promised to help today. Samol just laughed and nodded along, knowing the struggles of youth despite being so far away from his own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wait,” Samot stopped as he was heading out the door, “What was their studio called?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Young man, I gave you that card, why are we going to all the trouble of a written word if you won’t read it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot blushed and fumbled through his coat and pants pockets to find where he had stored it in his rush. And, there, in unimposing font and very little design at all, was an address and a name.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p>
  <span>“The Divine Forge?” Samot read aloud, holding the card up to the building and back down again, making sure the address was correct. The building was, for all intents and purposes, a fully residential house in a fully residential neighborhood. If there was a percussion studio inside, Samot should’ve heard it down the block. Curious.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He adjusted his blouse’s sleeves, checked the crease on his pants, and ensured his necklaces were layered correctly before deciding he was just stalling. Samot strode to the door, opened the screen, and knocked on the wood. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>A moment passed, he knocked again. Nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot leaned in and put his ear to the door. There was no noise inside, not that he could hear anyway. Maybe Samol had played a trick on him. But, with his face pressed sideways against the door, he noticed now a sign next to it, affixed flat against the left-hand wall:</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Your Knock Must Groove.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, I might as well try.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot thought for a moment to compose a quick knock, given the new requirements for entry, and tapped with both hands an approximation of some jazz rhythms he heard Samol listening to some time ago. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A moment passed. Nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe they’re not home…</span>
  </em>
  <span> He thought. Though, another voice in his head told him he probably did not actually groove very much. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Okay. Okay. Okay. </span>
  </em>
  <span> He thought once more about syncopation and knocks and grooves. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Okay, c’mon Samot, you know what rhythm is. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knocked out once more, this time with more flair and complexity. Samot took a second to write down the rhythm in his phone, thinking it might be useful. He was planning to write a percussion finale, after all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly, a knock came from the other side of the door. Three distinct pitches, repeated twice in succession. A normal knock from the knuckles, a deeper sound, and a slam. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh! </span>
  </em>
  <span> Thought Samot, as if that response had unlocked the door itself, </span>
  <em>
    <span>How could I forget about color?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot acted this time fully without thinking, changing several of his beats to different ways of hitting the door- pounding his fists on their sides at the end with caution for his pinky rings thrown to the wind. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And he heard a click. And, as he was still fully leaning on the door, immediately became unbalanced as the door opened inwards. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot found himself regaining his footing halfway into the doorframe, grasping his laptop bag like his life depended on it. In front of him stood a man about a head taller than himself- warm brown skin; thick, dark hair; and a neatly-trimmed beard framing his face. He wore a loose white tank top tucked into brick-colored linen pants. No shoes. And, oh, he had been speaking this whole time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you think?” said the handsome man.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Pardon?” replied Samot eloquently. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I said,” the man chuckled, “Most people tend to forget how much color you can add onto a rhythm to turn it into music once you take real pitches away. It’s a pretty good test to get into the studio, don’t you think?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh. Well.” Samot wondered what he actually did think about it, until he realized this was the most he had smiled since he finished his last piece, “It’s fun.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, now,” The man replied, gesturing for Samot to come into the house, “That’s a fair response.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He laughed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My name is Samothes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Samot,” he held out his hand, “Nice to meet you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sure.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A loud banging came from another room in the house, and it was certainly not intentional music. Pots and pans had definitely just fallen to the floor. In his surprise, Samot jerked his hand from Samothes’ grip and did not ruminate on how long their hands had been clasped. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey! Big guy! I’m gonna need your help here!” A loud, faintly nasally voice yelled from what Samot hoped- with that much cookware- was the kitchen and not some sort of experimental setup. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hold on, Primo,” Samothes said with projection and without loudness, “I’m coming.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He ran his hand through his hair and made his way deeper inside the house, pausing to point to a room to the right before continuing down the hall and making a left. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot understood, and made his way to his intended waiting room. It was a normal-sized house, truly residential, though he quickly understood how Samothes must not have had unending noise complaints hurled against him. The walls were ceiling-to-floor soundproofed. No posters, no shelving, no indication that there were people living here of any kind. Most of the paneling was colored a dark grey, the alternating directions of the lines making the wall look like a percussionist’s chessboard. The room was the size of the entire right side of the house, and was laid out in exactly the way you’d have it in a professional hall. There were toms of various sizes, high tables with assorted toy percussion instruments layed out, crotales… Everything short of a full size marimba.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The back corner of the room had thicker, black soundproof panelling- and also housed a full set of timpani.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot was thoroughly impressed, and luckily had enough time to pick his jaw off the floor before Samothes came back from the kitchen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you...” Samot said, turning to Samothes, “How did you get all this in here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samothes laughed, looking like this was the question he answered every three business days.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, we built most of it. ‘We being myself and Primo, my roommate. He’s also my sound engineer. We bought the house, knocked out all the walls on this side and made it one big room. Most of it could come through the door, but the 32” timpano gave us some trouble. I don’t think you noticed, but the door has a second, smaller door next to it that you can open to get stuff outside. We mostly use the bigger instruments for outdoor shows. Primo uses the setup for teaching, sometimes, too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samothes walked over to the throne and took his seat in between the timpani. He picked up some staccato mallets and started idly playing with them, miming out some piece in his head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So, Samot, how can I help you?” he spoke without ceasing his movements.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You were recommended to me by my mentor, Samol, for your expertise in percussion. I am looking to write a percussion piece for the finale of my graduate recital for the completion of my DMA.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah, I see. What do you have in mind?” Samothes stopped mime-drumming and leaned forward in the throne, his elbows on his knees.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The whole program is... Well, I wrote it, I think it’s good. I think some of it is quite good, actually-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samothes barked out a laugh, to which Samot brought a hand to his heart feigning insult, </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Pardon?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, haha, no, go on. I’m listening.” Samothes covered his mouth with his hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t pursue further study in a subject I believed I had no talent for,” Samot blushed, “Well. Anyway, the program right now ends on a mellow note, but I want it to have more of a finale to it. Something striking.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Most percussion instruments are struck, yes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah, so you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>know Samol.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At this, they both laughed. And Samot was glad that day that his knock had grooved enough to open this door.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>“HOW is it still hot outside?” Primo complained, bringing a full pitcher of strawberry lemonade into the living room. “I mean, it’s nearly October.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t remind me.” replied Samot from behind his computer. He had been curled up on the couch opposite the studio setup for some time now, trying to convince his computer program to allow him to input the correct beat coupling. It never worked the first time. It never worked the </span>
  <em>
    <span>ninth</span>
  </em>
  <span> time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, I for one,” Primo took a swig directly out of the pitcher and into his snout, “think the sun ought to calm down, don’t you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We cannot control the sun, old friend,” Samothes replied, bored, from his set of crotales. “Samot, I’ve got the ones you wanted off, are you ready?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hmm…? Oh. Oh, yes!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot sprung from his seat and knelt in front of the 29” timpano, watching as Samothes placed the crotale on the head of the drum. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ok, so,” Samothes sat in the throne and put his foot on the pedal, readying a hard plastic mallet, “What did you want me to do again?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Primo’s ears perked up, excited, “Prepared percussion? Yes. Yes! Finally.” He scuttled up to the drums and took a seat beside Samot. He held his lemonade pitcher in his hands like a child would hold a basketball. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Someone in this town has to have some guts to do something new! Great idea, kid. The pitch change on the head of the drum wi-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, Primo, exactly!” replied Samot, excited at the idea. “The chamber in the drum changes size when you use the pedal to change pitch, so naturally if there is a resonator on top…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samothes struck the crotale, producing a high pitched ring like crystal or glass. He pressed the pedal on the drum, and the sound changed pitch and turned thinner and floated away like the<a href="https://youtu.be/t8pzlONvxNU"> last trace of magic.</a></span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Neat.” he said, smiling wide and betraying his attempt at acting cool.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” said Samot, looking up at him from the height of the drum, “Very neat.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samothes thought to himself, at that moment, he had never seen anyone so beautiful. He also thought, at that very next moment, that he should keep that to himself for a bit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So this will be the mood of the second movement. Ethereal, like… Like the sound of the stars in the sky being created.” Samot got up from the floor and made his way back to his composition nest, deciding this time to just go handwritten for the sheet music and bother with the computer later.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You think that’s what stars sound like? That was too delicate, Samot. Stars are on fire, and huge.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Samothes, they are those things, you’re correct, but they’re also very far away. I think anything so loud and amazing will turn delicate at enough distance.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t it be difficult to keep a distance from something amazing? I’d have a hard time staying away.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot looked up at that, still writing the rest of his thoughts down in a notebook, and stared into Samothes’ eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Even if it blinded you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Primo took a large slurp of lemonade and left the room.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well?” Said Samothes, sitting beside Samot, offering him a glass of warm tea. Samot had come into the house a few moments ago holding nothing but a large envelope. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is that it?” Samothes gently wiggled the envelope out of Samot’s hands, replacing it with the tea he had made. Samot sipped his tea in response. It was unlike him to be so nervous. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Finally, he spoke.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The first time, the clerk bound every other page upside down. I had to ask a manager to do it. Honestly, I don’t expect everyone to know how to read music, but the page numbers on normal books don’t suddenly switch from the bottom to top corner every other page, do they? Well, I've checked it dozens of times. It’s all there. All that’s left is rehearsal and the performance.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s wonderful!” Samothes slung his left arm around Samot’s back, squeezing his shoulder as a hug, taking care not to jeopardize the newly printed score by putting it too close to a cup of tea.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“May I open it?” He asked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, I think you ought to, since you’re going to need to read the music to play it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah, that’s what they say. You have to play the notes on the page.” Samothes chuckled at his joke as he removed his arm from Samot’s shoulders and used both hands to gingerly unpackage the score. Samothes read, in bold letters and for the first time, the title of the piece and of its movements.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I Have Seen the Stars</span>
  </em>
  <span>? That’s a good title. Ah, I was wondering what you’d call that last movement. So, they’re all varying degrees of distance?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I decided you were right. Delicate noises are far away, true magnificence can only be beheld up close.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is that what you’ve put in your program notes?” Samothes chuckled, crossing his legs and replacing his arm around Samot’s shoulders before he opened the score to flip through it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samot thought for a moment about cuddling closer into Samothes. Instead, he said,</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Maybe.”</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Listen, we can’t just sneak into the orchestra house and borrow their timpani.” Samot said, already tailing Samothes down the road, the crisp night air making him wish he had brought a jacket and not just the scarf he had half of his face and arms strategically bundled into.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I work there, it’s fine,” replied Samothes, leading the way and not even wearing a scarf as if the winter wind did not bother him. The cold had come suddenly and all at once, taking many unfortunate tree-dwelling lizards and Samot by surprise. He hadn’t even had time to get his proper winter jackets out of storage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t even understand why this is necessary.”</span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“Oh, honey, the timpani I have at The Forge are mostly for outdoor performances and the balanced action pedals aren’t as seamless as the friction clutch pedals they have on the set at the hall, and it’ll be fine. Anything your university has will be fine for the performance, but for the recording, I want to have as close to perfect as possible. And, frankly, my drums are great for indoor classical, too, but something as intimate as what you’ve written in that second movement deserves to be heard without any mechanical accompaniment. Do you even know about pedals? Well, the balanced action is the most common...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Samothes continued into his explanation of the pros and cons of the different kinds of pedals on timpani, and Samot continued to nod along, as if he had not stopped listening after the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>honey</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Since when had they become so familiar? </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, </span>
  </em>
  <span>he supposes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>we have spent much of the past few months together. </span>
  </em>
  <span>In truth, Samot had spent nearly every evening with Samothes and Primo in their entirely luxurious percussion concert hall of a home. It had been a delight to find out it was mostly made up of restored instruments that had been discarded by local bands- though hardly anyone would be able to tell. Primo, apparently, had a knack for inventing new strange ways to make instruments work, and Samothes knew all the ways they were supposed to work. It was a bit of a dream, learning so much specialized information all at once. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But it was also nice to have friends. More often than not, Samot would work on papers or jobs or compositions while idly listening to Samothes practise on this instrument or that. Sometimes, he would just watch. Samothes delicately tapping out fairylike tunes on a glockenspiel. Samothes standing straight yet fully relaxed, nailing some of the fastest snare drum passages. But, oh, Samot’s favorite was Samothes at the timpani- sitting on the throne, looking like the spitting image of a royal blacksmith hammering away at some new creation. Maybe that’s why they called this place the Divine Forge.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was times like those when Samot wondered when he had first fallen for this man, who was able to repair and build and smile so easily. Maybe it was before Samot had even seen him, when Samothes had given him the secret of opening the door.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>It was times like the present, as he watched Samothes open the equipment-loading door to the hall belonging to the Marielda Symphony Orchestra in the dead of night, when he realized that Samothes was truly a contradictory man. Who builds a percussion section in their living room when he can just sneak into a better one? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Someone I’m in love with, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Samot thought, deciding quietly that he wouldn’t keep it to himself much longer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hall was beautiful. The back of the stage was an organ fully integrated into the wall. The architecture of the walls came across as art, even though their true purpose was for functional and sublime acoustics. The detailing along the boxes and the rails of the seats was simple and elegant. All of this Samot knew, but could not see, because it was midnight and Samothes had yet to turn the lights fully on. The room was lit only by the ever-present walkway lights. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So, what do you think?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Samot was surprised by Samothes standing so close to him, but was glad that he did not show it. Not that anyone would have seen, anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think,” Samot replied, feeling his way along the wall for a switch, “that we need to turn the lights on. Oh… Oh wait, I got it.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The lights sputtered on as Samot pressed what he assumed were the correct buttons on the touch screen. Eventually, it gave him what looked like the brightness slider on his phone, displayed under the label “Stage.” Perfect. He slid it about 60% up.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mood lighting?” Samothes chuckled, wheeling out a timpano from the storage room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t want to be found sneaking around with some hooligan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“I’m not some hooligan!” Samothes said as he dropped off one timpano and headed for another, “I’m allowed. You’re the hooligan.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>“If you’re allowed- supposing you are- and I’m with you, that doesn’t make me a hooligan. That makes me your plus one.” Samot pouted.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My plus one?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes.” Samot had, by now, walked down into the orchestra center seating and picked a chair for himself. He lounged into it, taking his phone out for notes and regretting that he left his laptop at the Divine Forge. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright.” Samothes seemed pleased with this agreement over their relationship to one another, and sat at the throne. He had unpacked his crotales from home, placed them in the appropriate spots. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Samot, I’m all set up. Are you ready?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes, go ahead.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You should film.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you’re right.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot held up his phone, grateful that the camera was good enough to pick up Samothes at this light and distance. </span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re right. The recording has to be done with those drums in that space.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you for listening to me.” Samothes laughed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It really made a difference. I’ve been in that hall so many times, I can’t say I’ve ever seen chamber music there. I can’t believe how close you sounded. It was so beautiful.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can’t take all the credit. You wrote it.” Samothes breathed into his hands, breath fogging the air as they hiked back to the Forge.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Samothes, are you cold? Here.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot unwrapped his scarf and draped it over Samothes, grateful that it was oversized enough to cover both Samothes’ broad shoulders and his own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.” Samothes replied, moving closer and thinking carefully about matching their steps so their precarious situation would not be unwound.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know,” he said, “If you don’t mind, it might be easier and warmer- while we are walking like this- if I put my arm around you.” Samothes looked straight ahead, avoiding seeing any meaningful looks that might have flashed across Samot’s face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re right again, my friend. I do not mind.” Samot put his arm around Samothes’ waist as Samothes wound his arm around Samot’s shoulders. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They didn’t speak for the rest of the walk home, but remained close like that until ultimately Samot decided he was too tired to go home. Samothes offered to sleep on the couch, so Samot could have his bed, and Samot was too tired and content to ask for anything different.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot stood in front of the green room mirror. Everyone’s dress rehearsals had gone well, the speakers for his fixed media pieces were balanced and the volume adjustments were taken. It was going to go well. The rehearsal had gone in reverse order, so it had been some time since he had seen Samothes. They both had needed to change into formal attire, as well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He ran his hands down his dress to smooth it out. It was a white maxi dress with a gauze overlay covered in constellations embroidered in golden threads and beads. He wore his hair down, a small blessing that the waves in his hair were cooperating without much work. His rings and bracelets flashed as he put in his earring- just one, a long dangly chain ending with a small charm of the sun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You look like a vocalist,” someone in the hallway called to him before he could catch who it was.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Vocalists must be very beautiful, then. I look fantastic. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He thought to himself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A stage hand came to get him- doors are opening, you can sit. It’s time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot had never felt so proud.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As he rounded the corner to walk into the hall, he caught a glimpse of a tall man in a dark red suit walking around to the backstage entrance.</span>
</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>The audience stood outside the hall, waiting for the musicians and composer to round the corner and receive their applause. The quintet walked out first, followed by the vocalist and violinist, and finally Samothes and Samot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The crowd had given a standing ovation to Samothes when the piece had ended. Samot felt the heat of pride at knowing his piece was not only very good, and not only received very well, but also had been performed with such delicacy and care from Samothes that it almost brought tears to his eyes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot was swept up in the crowd of praise and acclaim, thanking everyone for coming and making new connections. He gave his number to a few musicians who sought to recruit him for their own festivals and retreats, and he ate very little of his own reception’s snacks. </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>
    <br/>
  </span>
  <span>Samothes himself had garnered quite a crowd, as the undergraduate percussion studio had caught wind that the local legend would be premiering a piece here tonight. Two students in particular asked questions that were clearly phrased as an excuse to demonstrate their own knowledge and insightfulness, rather than to ask Samothes anything. He was very polite to them, if a bit distant, and continued to try and steal a glance with Samot. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot, who looked so beautiful and wrote such amazing music. Who helped Primo make better-tasting juices. Who had such creative insights on composition and performance. Who took every opportunity to learn and took everything he learned somewhere else to teach. Samot, who looked very perfect at home on his couch.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot, who finally made eye contact. For all Samothes was waiting for him to glance this way so he could ask Samot to step outside, it was Samot who made the gesture first.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“You played… with such emotion and care,” Samot said, brushing some errant strands of hair from his face and bracing his arms in the cold. Thank goodness his dress had a cape.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You really wrote some wonderful music. I can’t believe some of the things you did in your fixed media piece. What was that one sound, anyway, that made everyone gasp?” Samothes said, unbuttoning his jacket.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It was a large cooking pot in my bathtub. I filled the tub and, oh-” Samothes offered his jacket to Samot, “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot took a moment to put the jacket on, fumbling with how to get his arms in the sleeves without ruining the cape sewn into his dress. Samothes took the shoulders of the jacket and helped adjust them, leaving his hands where they were long after the jacket was properly in place.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t suppose,” began Samothes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was wondering if,” said Samot, at the same time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They both smiled to themselves at their crosstalk, both sure they felt the same pull towards one another.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You can go first. I’ve said quite a lot tonight already.” Samot quietly replied, smiling to himself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was just thinking,” Samothes continued, rubbing his hands up and down Samot’s arms to stimulate warmth or maybe just to feel him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was thinking that I sure have heard quite a lot from you, from your direct words to your indirect words to your music, and I can’t stop thinking about how much more I’d like to hear. I love having you at the Forge, and I’d love if we could continue to see each other after this.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I feel the same way,” Samot said as he took a small step closer, brushing a lock of hair from his face, “I find I have never quite had enough of your company.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Samot smiled brightly and Samothes brought him in for a hug. They stood there in the cold of the early spring, loving the warmth of each other’s arms, glad that they spoke the words in their hearts. Each of them glad for the world that had brought them together and excited for what their next days together would bring.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading! :-)</p><p>Twitter:<br/>@wyrmdisco (personal)<br/>@jarofbees1 (art)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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